Scars
by Yearning
Summary: They were the best of friends, rivals, team-mates... yet barely knew one another. So what's a fox to do when, eight years after, he finally starts learning about the real Falco Lombardi?
1. Side A: Introducing

So, I found myself writing more, at long last. In fact, I found myself writing about ten different stories all at once all centred around this one event I'd mentioned offhand in another set of notes. Given that I've been messing around with them all for ages and not really getting one or another finished, I thought I'd use the fine medium of this site to spur myself forward. As such, concrit is appreciated. naturally. If I'm fortunate, I'll be writing more skilfully by the end of this than I am right now! This story ties in with all the others I've written on here, coming as they all do from the same place. Usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

There was something vaguely unsettling about the clinical blandness of hospitals, Fox found.

It wasn't that he disliked them, so much as what being in one signified. Patient or visitor, it was a sign that something had gone awry, life had been interrupted somehow. At least he had the small mercy of being the visitor this time.

'Here' was the Dunsinane Military Station hospital, a far-flung outpost locked in high orbit above Macbeth, a sentinel watching the chaos below. The constant gang warfare below tended to erode any surface facilities, making the station this sector's only medical service. The occasional roving doctor came to the area, brave enough to bring 'healing to the savages', but they soon ended up back in Dunsinane's wards, being patched up while they vowed never to return.

Fox had taken a seat by the viewport, jacket folded neatly on his lap, staring out at the red-brown surface of the planet below, lost to his thoughts. This was not a place he'd ever expected to be.

How long had it been since he'd last properly spoken to Lombardi, face to face? Eight years, nearly? It seemed a lifetime ago now he was here, sitting in the same room as his one-time wingman. Thankfully he was still asleep: Fox had no concept of what he could possibly say to him when he woke up. 'Long time no see' probably wouldn't cut it.

This hospital room was much the same as any other he'd seen, with it's wipe-clean white walls and floor, accented here and there with occasional flashes of pale green and gunmetal grey, everything fresh and clean and anonymously sterile. Even the scent of antibacterial cleaner in the air was the same: you got the sense that if you walked out the door, you could be almost anywhere in the system.

Lombardi had the room all to himself: being a recognised Lylatian hero had its perks even now, it seemed. For a military installation, the room was pretty spacious, the various medical monitors embedded into the walls behind the bed, one of those huge mechanised things that tilted and shifted at the touch of a button. A couple of chairs were placed on one side of the bed, a cupboard on the other and the rest of the room was bare. Again, there was the sense of being in some strange, faceless limbo, caught awkwardly between life and death.

The patient himself was firmly tucked beneath the starched white sheets, as though the nurses were afraid he'd try and escape (how well they knew him already!), his breathing quiet, almost un-noticeable. If not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, someone might have mistaken him for the recently dead. He looked oddly fragile, the blue of his feathers appeared almost black against such a stark background, ruffled out of place, while the flash of red round his eyes was pale in comparison, drained and faint.

He'd been asleep for a while now, at least since Fox had entered the room an hour before. It had given him time to think about what he wanted to say, though for all his thinking he was no closer to deciding. For the past few minutes he'd simply been watching, re-familiarising himself with this cornerstone of his past, hunting for traces of the youthful bravado and swagger he was used to, hidden within the older, more weary face in front of him.

A soft sound disturbed his thoughts as Falco began to stir, a little grumble of displeasure as he opened his eyes to tiny slits, peering around the room uncertainly until his gaze found Fox and widened.

"Hey there."

"Nngh... 'm still dreaming... that you, Fox?" His voice was thick, the slurring of his words no doubt a side effect of the painkillers. His movements were minimal, such an odd thing to see from the one who'd been the most active on the team. Fox blinked a couple of times, aware he'd been staring, focusing on the heartrate monitor above the bed. He realised he had no idea how to reply, even as he opened his mouth.

"Yeah, thought I'd come say hi, bring a bunch of grapes, some flowers. You know, the usual hospital visit crap." The words rolled off his tongue, express delivered from his subconscious, which seemed to be better prepared than he was.

"Hn... It really that bad?"

"You look like shit."

"Yowch..." Falco gave a pained smile. "Thanks for the honesty. That why you come to visit after so long?"

"I thought maybe it was about time I came and looked you up again."

Falco nodded, resting his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes again, while Fox tried to marshal his thoughts into something he could work with, rather than the chaotic mess this situation seemed to have reduced them to. Wasn't it just like his former wingman to come in out nowhere and make things all crazy?

"So..." the silence had grown awkward already. "...uh, how are you feeling?"

"Like someone stabbed me in the guts. How about you?"

"Worried, mostly." Fox stared at his hands, folded in his lap. "Kinda guilty, that it takes something like this to get back in contact. I mean, you're my best friend, and you nearly..."

"Ease off on the optimism, Captain Positive. Before you give yourself some kinda 'happy hernia' or something. It's good of you to come at all, I'm just, I dunno, grouchy."

"Yeah... stabwounds'll put a dampener on anyone's mood. The medical staff reckon your damn lucky to be alive."

Falco rolled his eyes and patted his stomach lightly. "I'm feeling all kinds of lucky right now."

Fox just rolled his eyes and sighed. Lombardi was as flippant about his injuries as ever, it seemed, far to eager to ignore the damage he'd sustained, shrug off the concern being shown. Out of the two of them, though, he'd always thought it would be him who ended up in hospital someday, while Falco screamed onwards, to immortality or an explosive end, one or the other. This strange limbo didn't suit his temperament at all.

He glared out the viewport at the planet below: only a hellhole like Macbeth could cause such a strange circumstance as this.

"You could have died, Falco." He was surprised at how quiet, how fragile, his own voice sounded. "You'd lost a lot of blood when you arrived."

"Feh, blood. Over-rated."

"You can't just act like nothing's happened!"

The Lombardi of old, the hothead flying ace who knew exactly how good he really was, would have countered that without hesitation. Wasn't that normally his way, his response to 'no you can't"? The immediate riposte of 'yes I can"?

"I know, I know... getting all angsty about it isn't going to make it better, you know. I just need to make sure it doesn't happen again."

He was still as stubborn as he'd ever been, of course. He'd just found a gentler way of expressing it. Fox sighed and nodded. "You could start by finding a better place to live..."

That definitely hit a nerve. Falco's face blanked, like someone had taken a cloth and wiped the emotion away, his voice suddenly flattening. "Can't do that."

"And why not?"

"I have unfinished business here, Fox."

"Then _finish_ your business and get out!" Fox found himself on his feet and pacing around the bed almost immediately. "This place is a deathtrap and you shouldn't be here, not when you could do so much better for yourself!"

Falco gave him a sad look and shook his head. "It's not like I don't appreciate your confidence in me. I mean, I'm flattered, but I have my reasons for being here."

How strange this was, Fox mused, listening to that quiet voice explain, ever so calmly, how things were going to be. His wingman could exasperate him, confuse him sometimes, but he'd never credited him with being capable of this role reversal. He'd begun to feel like he was the one being unreasonable. Still, he'd been fortunate enough to be given an insight into what was happening here, and he intended to use it.

"Is it Leon?"

"... it's complicated."

Fox dropped back into his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. "I have time enough to try and understand."

"Does it really matter so much?" Falco shot him a pained look as he said it, but Fox rolled his eyes and pushed on regardless.

"Damn right it does, if you're planning on getting yourself killed over it." Probably Falco's most annoying trait, Fox reflected, was how bloody dumb he could be (or played at being) when it came to understanding that other people actually cared about his wellbeing. "You've got so much talent, so much potential, but you're wasting it on this... this stupid war with Leon. I can't just let someone I care about destroy themselves without even asking why!"

"It's not what you..." He'd tried to sit up as he spoke, but immediately he winced and groaned, clutching his injured stomach. When he opened his eyes again, Fox had moved to the bedside, face full of worry and concern.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine... my own stupid fault." Falco rested a hand on Fox's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Look... I'll explain it to you, but not now. Let me rest, come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you everything."

* * *

The door closed silently behind him as he left, Falco having slipped back into sleep quickly once they'd stopped talking. As he tugged his jacket back on, looking down the featureless white corridor, Fox pondered exactly what he was going to learn tomorrow that would somehow explain this whole mess.

He barely noticed the light pressure on his shoulder until he felt something coil round his neck. He tried to grab at it, but the limb was composed of taut, strong muscle and wouldn't budge. A weight settled onto his back, unseen appendages wrapping round his chest.

"Shhhhh, McCloud. Just stay calm, act normal. We're going to go take a walk, somewhere dark and quiet. I need to talk with you."


	2. Side B: Reminiscing

_Introducing Side B, otherwise known as alternating chapters of flashbacks. Solves the problem of having two seperate pieces of work ongoing that seem to have become too intertwined to effectively separate them. In this case, mashing them together in a take-turns way appeals to me. Reviews are as ever most appreciated: it's hard to improve if you never find out what works and what doesn't, after all. Standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

Falco was, as ever, hiding. His experience of hanging around other gangers was that they treated him as a non-person, fit only for scurrying after scraps of food, or else sending him to steal from the other gangs.

At least Tideswell would spare him attention every now and then, most often by ensuring he didn't starve to death. On occasion he even threw clothes that fitted him his way. The old dog had been boss of their gang for a long time now, long enough that he could afford to be a little soft-hearted every now and then, when it suited him...

"Falc! Getcha scrawny ass ovah here!"

...and in return, Falco was as loyal and obedient a follower as he could manage. Sometimes that wasn't much, but it was enough to make the old guy happy, so it was all good in the end. Much though he'd be the last to admit it, in some ways he looked up to the old guy.

"Falco!"

Well, looked up to him when he wasn't being an angry old grump, anyway. Seeing as how that accounted for two thirds of each day, Falco spent a lot of time on his own, exploring those parts of the city that belonged to his gang, and plenty more that didn't. Being scrawny and fast on his feet also meant he was harder to see, a fact that he took advantage of whenever he could.

"If I don't see ya down here in ten seconds, I'm gonna pluck and roast ya!"

It did him little good to hide when the boss always knew where he was tucked away, though. Falco sighed and rolled off his seats, snatching up his knife from the floor in one smooth motion to hook it on his belt, before heading down the steps two at a time. Best to keep the old guy sweet while he could. Tideswell gave him a sidelong glance, sweeping his shaggy grey and white fur out of his eyes, smirking as he approached before turning to the rest.

They, being the East River Gang, were currently holed up in the abandoned Ice Rink, as central a spot to gather as their territory could muster, about forty of them milling around the rink itself. It was dilapidated and run down, empty and disused even before things had gotten bad in the city. The paint was peeling from most surfaces, the ice had long since gone, but the building itself was still solid, which was all that mattered, really.

Falco had retreated to the highest spot he could find within moments of arriving here, scouting around amongst the remains of the blue plastic chairs, finding a stretch of them in decent enough condition to let him sprawl and keep a low profile. No point in being down there and picked on by every muscle-head he knew.

"I been hearin' rumours that the Southbridgers have been holin' up in Heather Towers." He paused to let the full impact of his words settle in. "Wanderin' into OUR patch like they own it! So I reckoned alla you fine folks'd be up for a little tidyin' up."

There was a rumble of approval from the group as the boss nodded and smiled. He'd managed to gather a good selection of the gang here, all the best fighters he'd found over the years, as battle-hardened and muscle-bound a bunch as you were ever going to find, and Glamis was a violent place. For the majority of his thirteen years alive, Falco had known to avoid such people.

One by one, they came forward and were given a role in the plan: There was always a plan to follow, always guidance as to what was required. No-one was stupid enough to argue about their part, they all knew that if they did what was asked, things would probably work out.

Tideswell had been considered the gang's leader for this long on the basis of how, under his control, they had managed to keep hold of their turf. Well, that and the fact that he had a right hook so fierce, he could knock out even the strongest of them with barely any effort.

"What you want me for, boss?" Falco asked as the last few gangers dispersed into the night. The old dog turned to him with a massive grin and a dangerous gleam in his eye.

"Oh, boy, I got a doozy of a job for you."

* * *

It wasn't too hard to imagine a time long past when the city might have been an alright place to live. Not a good place by any means, but somewhere you could get along okay, if you wanted to. There had been parks here once, where now there was only a sprawl of yellowed, overgrown grass and a maze of tents where those with no money and no gang lived.

When the money system went all to hell (Falco paid scant attention, so he wasn't too sure how, but the boss had said something about the banks becoming distrustful of one another, and all the buying and selling that keeps things up and running went bad, and then worse and worse), and then... Glamis, the way he'd always known it, had appeared.

There were these vast areas to the west, huge automatic factories that worked day and night without end, churning out whatever it was people needed made in such vast amounts, while the rich drifted above it all in their floating cities, ignoring the world below. And if it wasn't factories, or floating cities, or dives like Glamis, then it was tanglethorn trees in vast forbidding rings around the factories, the only plant on Macbeth that seemed to thrive in the choking fumes those factories pumped out all the time.

None of which mattered to Falco right now (except the floating cities, maybe: from time to time he would imagine what it was like to be one of the spoilt-stupid kids of some rich baron, up in their gilded paradise), clambering as he was through the air-con vents of the apartment block. By now his tattered black trousers were coated with thick gray dust, the thick charcoal winter jacket he'd found a few months ago looking even worse, the various tears and nicks catching every time he brushed against the sides of the narrow passage..

He reached what seemed to be a vent and peeked through the grille: the room on the other side was bare, save for the scraps of dirty yellow wallpaper hanging from the walls and the rampant mildew: its damp odour seemed to be everywhere. Even the floors were stark. He kicked through and dropped into the room, knife in hand, eyes darting from left to right, scoping out trouble.

The door was ajar, he noticed, a sliver of the corridor visible through the crack. With slow, careful steps, he drew close, held his breath and listened, trying to block out the sound of his own heart thundering in his chest. When that didn't help, he risked peeking through the crack in the door, then gingerly pulled the door open further and stuck his head out as little as he could manage, attention flashing from left to right. Nothing.

He had to be cautious here: Heather Towers was pretty much empty, but there were non-gangers here too. If he so much as gave one of them a papercut and Tideswell found out about it... a shudder coursed down his back at the idea: Tideswell didn't approve of violence against non-gangers At All.

Making his way to the window, he glanced out into the night. So far he'd counted ten Southbridgers in the building and two outside, perhaps there to act as scouts. A few of them had found a couple and their kid hiding out in one of the apartments at the end of the hall on this floor, however, and were holding them captive. No doubt the boss had his own ideas about how to deal with those particular gangers.

Rough fingers clamped over his beak: he struggled for only a moment before his assailant had grabbed the wrist of his knife-hand, holding fast.

"Hush up, Falco," Tideswell whispered in his ear, letting go as Falco relaxed himself. "How we lookin'?"

"Second floor's empty, first has got six, four on this floor, but they're at the end of the hall in the right room, with some non-gangers."

The old sheepdog nodded and vanished out the door again: moments later there came shouts and the sound of fighting, echoing down the hall as people stormed past. Falco tried to move out and join in with the action, but Tideswell appeared in the door frame again, giving him a warning look that made him think twice about arguing the point. Little by little the chaos died down, quietened...

Out of nowhere, a scream cut across everything, a high, shrill noise that seemed to deaden everything else. The old dog's eyes widened in shock before his brow dropped into a scowl. Then he took off down the hall, fists clenched tight, the look on his face dark enough to kill. Falco trailed close behind him unsure what else to do, but knowing better than to overtake: Tideswell's bad moods were like storms, unfocused but capable of striking at those who fell beneath them. The other members of their gang scrambled out of his way as he approached. Somewhere in the background he could hear muted sobbing.

Falco found himself in the doorway before he realised, his attention sliding downwards, focused on the floor: somehow he'd managed to step in a little trickle of blood. He supposed that he'd have to clean his shoes... then the shutters in his brain began to rise, exposing him to the awfulness of the scene by degrees.

They were... they had been a couple of cold-bloods, couldn't tell what species, having seen no more than a handful in his whole life. The man was sprawled over the edge of a dirty-looking chair, half-laying on his back on the grime-encrusted floor. He seemed somehow weary; definitely the older of the two adults, with his heavily lined face, eyes a pearly cream mixed with gold, dotted with tiny flecks of brilliant green and his pupils pulled into tiny black pinpricks.

It was easy to see so much detail in those eyes when they were staring right at him.

His head had been twisted to an impossible angle, his mouth opened a tiny crack, from which a line of spittle trailed to the floor, thick, viscous looking stuff, like glue. His arms and legs were spread in awkward, painful-looking positions. He was definitely dead, and recently too. Looked like it had been pretty much instant, the moment his neck had been broken.

The woman... she was writhing on the floor, legs kicking out at invisible attackers, the motions hypnotic, even though they were jerky and erratic. Maybe because of that. As soon as Falco looked at her he couldn't tear his gaze away. She had both hands wrapped round her neck, as though trying to strangle herself, the blood oozing through her fingers, so unnaturally bright against the dull green skin that the image seared itself into him.

He must have made a sound, or some kind of subtle motion, because at that exact moment, her eyes settled on him. and it felt like the whole scene just exploded in his head, embedding itself against the inside of his skull. His stomach clenched, the bile rising, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Aw fer f... get the kids outta here!"

Tideswell sounded like he was speaking from another planet. Falco barely noticed when Shorae, the boss's right hand man, clamped hands on both his shoulders and steered him out of the room, pushing him into a corner at the end of the hall. The tiger never once let go, his grip an absolute command on his motion.

He couldn't stop thinking about her eyes as she'd looked at him... It was as though the whole world had dropped away from him. Even though he was out of the room, he could still feel it boring into him, like she'd never stopped staring at him, eyes full of terror and... what, blame? Was she blaming him for what had happened? But he wasn't the one who'd... his stomach rattled and shuddered inside him, warning against such thoughts.

"Falco!!" He felt his shoulders being shaken roughly and blinked, looking up at Shorae, attention becoming focused on the curve of his maw, the glint of his teeth, the well-groomed lie of his striped fur, like everything had been broken down to elements, and he could see only one at a time. In his daze he reflected that Shorae was, if looked at as bits and pieces, kind of amazing. "Take care of the kid. Keep him HERE."

Someone was sobbing next to him, dropped by his side without ceremony. As Shorae moved away the newcomer made a move to follow, but Falco was still clear-minded enough to remember he'd been given a job to do. He stuck his arm out and the other kid bounced off it, falling on his ass again, his crying only interrupted for a second or two before continuing. From the room, there was muffled talking, then a long period of silence.

One by one, the East Rivers filed past him and out the front door, some of them carrying their beaten rivals between them, tied up and unconscious for the most part. No-one said a word. Falco watched their retreating backs, his brain feeling both overtaxed and empty. Like his other thoughts had gotten scared and run off.

Once the others had gone, Tideswell appeared, walking over to them and standing in front of them. He reached out, dangling a gold band on a chain in front of the cold-blood kid. Falco could still see the blood on it, sunk into the grooves of the pattern, even into the inscription.

"Keep a'hold of this, kid. Yer ma would'a wanted ya to keep it."

An emerald green hand reached out and, after a moments hesitation, took the ring. The scales on his arm seemed so fine as to be near invisible, the colour vivid. Falco turned and looked at the kid's face: the other boy looked eleven, if even that.

"Falco." Tideswell was looking at him, expression serious. "Need ya to look after this guy for a while, okay? Keep him outta the kind of trouble you get into, ya hear me?" The old dog patted his shoulder and trudged away.

The touch was enough to bring him out of his daze, and he tried to shake a little brain activity back into his head. Right now everything seemed pretty unreal, and any task he could preoccupy himself with was worth considering. Next to him, the boy reached behind his head and fastened the chain around his neck, hiding the ring inside his shirt.

"What's your name?" Falco asked, when it had been done.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the kid jerked round in a panic and looked straight at him, wary, as though he'd thought himself alone. His eyes, so like his mother's that before Falco could blink he was standing back in that doorway, eyes locked with hers. Transfixed by that wild, accusing stare.

"I'm Leon. Leon Powalski."


	3. Side A: The Least Likely

_Third chapter, at last, after much fiddling and re-purposing of dialogue. Concrit appreciated, as ever. _

* * *

Fox grasped the handle of the nearest door and peeked in, careful not to lean over too much, top-heavy as he currently was. The sliver of light from the corridor revealed a small room with shelves, some sort of supply closet, which would do.

"This will do. In, please, and shut the door," came the whisper in his ear. Resisting the urge to back up into the doorframe and make his escape, he snuck inside. With the light off, when he closed the door the room was plunged into pitch blackness.

"Get. The hell. Off me." he whispered through clenched teeth. The tail uncurled from around his neck swiftly, the grip on his jacket released as he gasped for air, rubbing at his neck to try and pat down the ruffled fur.

"I apologise, I couldn't think of any other way to-"

"You apologise?!" Fox hissed, cutting him off. "You just about gave me a heart attack! Why can't you just say 'hi' like normal people?"

There was a sigh. "Somehow I don't think you would have been convinced. I'm surprised you're even talking to me now."

"Oh, believe me, I'm taking the whole thing with a pinch of salt. You want to turn a light on or something?"

There was a cough and pause. "Could I borrow your jacket?"

"What do you want my-" Well of course, Leon could only disguise his body, not his clothes. "Oh." He pulled the jacket off instantly and handed it over. There was the sound of fabric moving and a zip being done up.

"Thank you."

The light flicked on. Fox winced at the sudden assault on his eyes and looked around to see Leon Powalski sitting on the floor with his back to the door, legs tucked up into the black jacket, which hung off him like some kind of poncho. He looked tired, the normally vivid green of his scaly skin dulled to a shade nearer olive. His eyes were red-rimmed and narrowed to slits against the light.

"There was still no need for that."

Leon shot him an accusing look. "You're not the only person I'm being careful around... You'll forgive me for not being more trusting, but this isn't a place someone like me should take chances."

Fox threw his hands up in frustration and sat on a nearby box, rubbing at the fur around his neck to try and straighten it out while he calmed himself. The chameleon sat and watched him for a moment before glancing around the room. They'd managed to end up in the cleaner's storage cupboard; bottles of cleaning solution and various mops, cloths and gloves were scattered around the narrow shelves. Above them a single striplight gave illumination.

"It's as well you've turned up now, I guess. I was expecting to run into you sometime, after that message."

"Yes, I rather hoped you'd turn up sooner rather than later. It's not been comfortable being here."

Fox raised an eyebrow. "I bet running round a military station naked can't be all that entertaining, no."

He could almost see the blush. Almost. "It's not like I enjoy this, McCloud! If I want to stay hidden, I have to ensure I'm completely undetectable. Besides, I think we _both_ know what would happen if but a single soldier catches sight of me here." He made a gesture with his hand. "Fsshwp! Out the nearest airlock."

"I don't think they'd-"

Leon glared at him angrily. "Use your _brain_. Think who I'm meant to be."

Fox fell silent and then nodded reluctantly: The military were not the most restrained or forgiving sorts, that's why he'd shied away from military service after the first Lylat war, after all. And given the chance to get their hands on an infamous war criminal, especially someone as legendary as 'The Bloody Scourge'... Somehow he doubted there would be much thought of 'fair trials' and 'justice served'.

"Fair point. Your reputation has a life of it's own."

Leon quickly looked elsewhere, his expression softening into something approaching mournful. "How very true that is."

"I guess I owe you some thanks."

"No, you don't." Instantly that softness was gone again, swiftly masked. "I did it for his benefit, not yours."

"Uh... right."

There was an awkward pause for a moment, before Leon covered his eyes. "Still... I'm gratified you took me at my word enough to come. No offense, but I didn't hold out much hope of you believing my message."

"I took some convincing, but someone I trust vouched for you."

They sat in silence for a moment, Leon nodding and drawing himself into the jacket as much as possible, arms wrapped round himself as though to conserve heat.

"How is he doing?" Leon finally asked, voice quiet.

"Oh... Grouchy, stubborn. Typical Falco." Fox shot the chameleon a skeptical look. "You seem awfully concerned for someone who, as I recall, used to take great pleasure in shooting at him."

"And you're awfully preachy for someone who's now living with his one-time nemesis." Leon could help but give a lopsided smile when Fox spluttered and blushed in defensive outrage. "Don't be so surprised, I'd been waiting in the docking bays for you to arrive, on and off, ever since I got here. I saw that little farewell of yours. Very touching, I must say."

The blush increased in intensity, as he tried to shrink back into the box he was sat on. "That was... I mean..."

"Don't fret so, McCloud. It's good to finally see the big lunk finally has someone he can rely on, after so many years of looking out for Panther and myself." The chameleon gave a little sigh and leaned back to rest his head against the door, his expression briefly unguarded, troubled. "I'll confess to being a touch envious. It's not so easy for some..." He screwed up his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples.

"_Anyway_," Fox continued, trying to move the conversation past his embarassment, "they've got him patched up pretty well now. I take it you've not been in to see him?"

"I haven't dared try. I only got this far today because I stuck close to you. Besides, why would he want to see me?"

It seemed to Fox like he was talking to a completely different person than the one he'd known on the field of battle, utterly dissimilar to the shrill, arrogant psychopath of his memories. Wolf had already told him that if he treated Leon like a normal person he'd be 'surprised' at the results, but that scarcely covered it.

"You seem calmer than you were when you contacted me." Wasn't that just the understatement of the century? Tearful messages from Leon seemed about as likely as tearful messages from a rock.

"Hah! I can only imagine what you must have thought. I must have given you the fright of your life-"

From outside there was the faint sound of footsteps and they both became silent immediately, Leon's tail flicking up and stabbing the lightswitch, plunging the room into darkness again. Fox strained his ears to listen, as the footfalls grew ever closer. From somewhere he managed to lay hands on a half-full metal canister of cleaning solution, tightening his grip on the handle...

_-Don't stop, don't stop, don't...-_ The click-click of footsteps gradually started to fade away, until they'd dwindled to nothing and he let out a sigh of relief, very nearly dropping the can onto his foot.

"I think we're safe now, Powalski." No response. "Leon?"

The light clicked back on, the chameleon appearing for a fraction of a second as a pitch-black silhouette against the door before vanishing. He settled back down on the ground, tucking his legs back into the safety of the still-visible jacket before reappearing, seeming to shimmer out of the background. He was looking more tired now, fatigue definitely catching up with him, even though his eyes were alert.

"You can see how come I've not slept since I called you. This is a cold place, with so many thrilling distractions..."

"That was three days ago!" Fox's eyes widened as Leon gave him a weak smile and nodded.

"I can feel every hour of it, believe me."

He felt a brief internal conflict. On the one hand, someone was suffering: he felt the old urge to wade in and solve other people's problems, just like he'd always done. On the other hand, this was Leon 'Bloody Scourge' Powalski, the butcher of Macbeth, the most infamous torturer for centuries. One quick word to a passing guard and he'd probably end up with his shirt so bedecked with medals, he'd walk lopsided for the rest of his life.

_-Yeah, and Wolf would never be able to trust me again. As for Falco...- _Somehow he suspected that Wolf's reaction would be but a pale shadow of the abuse he'd get from his old wingman. His shoulders had sagged in resignation before he'd even put words to his decision.

"You'd better come get some shut-eye, then."


	4. Side B: Mostly By Osmosis

_Chapter 4 at last, and none too soon; I've been labouring at several different things at once, trying to keep track of all the connections. Since this feeds into my previous stories (The Vagrant and The Lonely) and the ones I'm still working on that aren't up here yet, whenever an idea occurs to me, I have to make sure I flesh it out there and then, to see if it 'fits into the jigsaw'. all of which takes time._

_Anyway, thanks to everyone who's reviewed my work thus far: it's big boost for me to know people are enjoying my work, and also to know why. It keeps me going! And now, Chapter 4._

* * *

There were, Falco had concluded, two problems with Leon Powalski.

Firstly, he was too much of a spineless little goody-two-shoes crybaby to ever join in with anything Falco thought was fun. Leon could never back him up when he was scrapping with the neighbourhood kids, seeing as how he'd be too busy whimpering in the shadows as soon as anything kicked off, looking all pouty-faced and miserable.

You couldn't have any kind of fight with the little runt: if anyone raised a fist at him, he'd go pale (and he was very good at that) and come running to his 'big blue babysitter'. If Falco _himself_ so much as looked at him funny... oh man. The endless floods of tears, the big hurt eyes, that look of betrayal...

The first time it had happened had taught him that bullying Leon was no fun at all. Quite besides the bawling and general guilty conscience, Leon always gave him _that_ look, the one that seemed to instantly teleport him back to that filthy room, turning the corner and seeing her... it was like staring into the eyes of a ghost, a chill he couldn't shake off.

About the only thing Leon might have been any good at was petty theft, since he was thin like a length of rope and about as flexible, too, yet even that wasn't an option. The one time he'd tried to coerce him into helping out with a little light burglary to pass the time, he'd been stupid enough to do it within earshot of Tideswell. The old dog had cuffed him round the side of the head so hard he'd almost done a somersault.

"You wanna be a little gangland shit alla yer life, Lombardi, 's fine with me, but don't be draggin' him down with ya!"

He hadn't been expecting that, not least from the boss of a gang. True, East River weren't bad guys, as gangers went, but nonetheless, it jarred... when it came to Leon, Tideswell seemed to run things by a different set of rules, and it was just a whole heap of frustration.

Secondly, and more worrying... Leon clung to him, stuck by his side like glue, no matter what he was doing, as though the fact that he was a dirty orphan who stole and fight and made like hell for all around him didn't matter, because he was the only person Leon would trust. In the chameleon's eyes, Falco could do no wrong, which made him feel dishonest in a way he didn't like. He'd never claimed to be a good kid, never would have dared tell him that, because he knew he wasn't. Having someone treat him like the sun shone out of his ass was just unsettling.

Falco had spent a great deal of time lately wondering why the hell had the boss saddled him with the kid in the first place. Surely it wasn't on account of them being around the same age, because that was a damn stupid reason, in his eyes. Just because he was young didn't mean he wasn't bad.

Then again... he could see the other gang members in his mind's eye, flicking past a page at a time, and the idea of one of them taking care of Leon? It could have been funny, if it wasn't so depressing. By now all that would have remained of the younger kid was an unmarked grave. Not that that mattered, of course, because Falco took care of himself and didn't have time to worry about other people, always looking out for number one.

On the other hand, damned if he was going to admit defeat! The boss had told him to do something and he was gonna do it, because nothing, _nothing_, got the better of Falco Lombardi, not even whiny kids with a really bad eye for role models.

Besides, he told himself, caring about what happened to Leon and defending him gave him an excuse to beat the crap out of the local kids, so he got something out of it. Never mind that pretty much no-one messed with the little guy any more. The sight of Falco bearing down on them like the angel of death was enough to convince most local bullies that it Just Wasn't Worth It.

Having someone he needed to look after had meant he couldn't be as much of a drifter as he'd been before. Usually he found somewhere he could sleep and stayed there for only a few weeks before he felt the need to move on. Recent events, however, had forced him to find somewhere he could make a more permanent base.

As such, 'home' was currently a small abandoned house where he'd managed to pick the locks on the door. The windows were boarded up so it was dark inside most of the time, but most of the windows still seemed to have glass in beneath the planks, so the cold winds blowing up off the river didn't freeze them in the night. The house was old enough that they even had a fireplace, so the pair of them had been raiding planks and tangle-thorn branches every day until they had a good supply of firewood. The surface-dwellers of Macbeth never really saw much of the advances in technology of the rest of the system, but at least right now it was a blessing. A high-tech heater was no damn good when you didn't have electricity to run it with.

He'd also acquired some extra blankets from an unguarded clothesline recently, mostly for Leon's benefit, but they seemed to have been following the younger kid into the main room in front of the fire, forming a heap on the floor a safe distance away. It should have annoyed him, but it had just became part of daily life, as though things had never been different.

* * *

"I'm cold... I wanna go home."

This was the third time he'd complained. It was getting on his nerves... wasn't it?

"Suck it up, beanstalk. Winter ain't going to pack up and leave any time soon."

Falco came to a halt, subconsciously pulled his coat around himself a little more, to shield himself from the chill wind blowing down the rubbish-strewn back-alley. He'd spent as much of his life as he could remember in this city, but never had the air seemed so piercingly cold. He jammed his tightened fists deep into his pockets, flexing his fingers as though he could pump the warmth back into his fingers, trying to fluff his feathers up as much as he could under his clothes.

A few paces away, Leon was trying to button up his own jacket, though his fingers seemed unwilling to co-operate with him. All the while, his pouty expression ensured that his objection to being out in the cold wasn't forgotten. Currently he was wrapped up in two shirts, a jumper, a fleece, his dark blue coat and about three scarves, which on anyone else might have made them look comically round, but added to his skinny frame it seemed to make little difference. It certainly wasn't making him shut up about being cold.

It wasn't like he'd wanted to go out today either, Falco reflected, but he'd actually scored some money from a fist-fight a few days ago: it was always worth buying some food whenever you could. You couldn't rely on charity to keep you fed, after all, or the easily robbed to have the things you liked to eat. He was pretty sure he'd never lifted anything from the local mart, so he figured he stood a good chance of the store owner not chasing him out.

Behind him there was a little sigh of frustration: he turned to see as Leon fumbled with the coat buttons one last time before giving up, his shoulders slumping.

"Geez, you're such a klutz..." Falco said, rolling his eyes.

"Sorry..."

He felt the twinge of guilt almost instantly. How in the world had the little brat gotten so good at making him regret the things he said? Briefly he looked both up and the alley. Didn't look like anyone was coming, which was why he walked this way from the house usually, but it didn't hurt to make sure. He had his pride to think about, after all, wouldn't want anyone to catch him having a soft moment like this. Stooping over, he started hooking the buttons into their loops.

"When we get back, we'll get the fire going first thing, but we gotta have food. Else you're gonna end up getting so thin you vanish." He looked up and grinned as best he could. "And then who'd bug me about being cold?"

"Yeah..." Leon gave a weak smile, his expression tired, sleepy-eyed, nodding slowly.  
It seemed as though he'd been like this more and more, lately. Falco wondered idly if the chameleon was one of those people who got all tired and depressed when the days started getting shorter. This morning especially, when he'd woken to find the younger boy curled round his arm (again), it had taken a lot of shaking and calling to get him to uncoil himself and get moving.

He did up the last button and got to his feet, stretching his arms out before readjusting his jacket and carrying on up the path, Leon trailing after him at a slower pace. It was still annoying, at least in theory it was, but the irritation had lost its ability to get its claws into him. Gradually he found himself slowing down a little to let them walk side by side with one another. What would normally have been no more than a ten minute walk seemed to stretch beyond half an hour.

Their eventual arrival at the Liquor & Mart a few minutes later heralded an unexpected change. The advert-plastered doors slid open jerkily, their movement accompanied by a high-pitched squeal of unoiled metal and the warm, dry air from within billowing outwards. The store within had no other windows, it seemed, dimly lit with dust-coated striplights that turned the light a sickly yellow.

To the left of the entrance as they walked in, the shopkeeper behind the counter, an old bulldog with patchy brindle fur, gave the pair of them a venomous, piercing look through his thick glasses, wrinkled canine features rearranging themselves into disapproval with practiced ease. No doubt the old man had had plenty of trouble with the local delinquents over the years, and Falco had probably been one of them, sometime in the past, but today that look stung him, more than it should have. Since when did he care?

He tried to shrug it off, but found himself staring down at his feet and the chequerboard linoleum on the floor, feeling shamefaced for a moment before he grabbed at a shopping basket and shuffled up the nearest aisle, wanting to be out of range of that accusing look. By the time he felt able to look up, he realised he was amongst the breakfast and cereal stuff. That was good, he could just about cope with cereal right now. He turned towards Leon, eyes scanning the boxes on the shelves for a moment, looking for anything that might catch his eye.

"So, you want any... huh?" Once his attention was back on the here and now, he realised he was talking to thin air. Where'd Beanstalk vanished off to? Walking back to the end of the aisle, he spotted his friend had halted beneath the hot-air blower next to the entrance, arms outstretched and face turned up to the heat, his eyes closed blissfully, as though receiving a blessing from the heater.

"Uh, Leon?"

The chameleon took a second to respond, frowning briefly before opening his eyes and realising who'd called him.

"Sorry, I'm..." He seemed at a loss for words for a moment, then shrugged and smiled, a little sheepish. "It's warm here."

Falco shook his head, turning away before Leon could see the grin forming on his face. "Well, just wait here, then."

* * *

A quarter of an hour of unrestrained consumerism later, Falco was beginning to feel, if not happy, then at least considerably better about life. He had food, drink and extra clothes packed tightly into two new rucksacks. The promise of a fire in the fireplace at home even meant Leon wasn't giving him any hassle about going back out in the cold to go home. As the sliding doors opened, he figured today might possibly be one of the better days he'd had.

"Well well... lookie here, you follow the flies, you find the shit."

On the other hand...

Around the entrance at least ten or eleven of the local neighbourhood brats had come out of the woodwork and were gathered round, forming a semicircle. Trying to push through them was probably suicidal. He vaguely recognised some of them, which was never a good sign if you were in someone else's patch, because recognition generally meant you were looking at someone you'd screwed over recently, which wasn't something that endeared people to you. Mind you, he reflected, wandering another gang's patch never endeared you to _anyone _there.

Leon very slowly starting shuffling behind him, which pointed out another error: given that most people knew that Leon followed Falco everywhere, leaving him in full view of the public at the front of a shop was, in hindsight, a reallybad idea. To his left, someone pushed their way through, and Falco groaned inwardly when he realised who it was. Really _really_ bad idea.

Tachi was governed by four unchanging factors: He was strong, violent, stupid and immensely orange, almost luminously so. This last point at least gave the advantage that you could see him coming well in advance, which gave people enough time to clear out of the way. That he also favoured bright coloured clothing also helped (today was no exception, with him wearing a bright overly tight red jacket, which he'd obviously stolen from someone a size smaller than himself, along with the usual tattered jeans). Falco had taken advantage of this natural warning system on many occasions, but being in the shop today hadn't given him the best view of passing traffic.

"You an' me got a score needs settling, featherhead." The brightly coloured feline sneered and cracked his knuckles as he stepped closer, which sent Leon scurrying the rest of the way behind Falco's back instantly.

"I ain't looking for a fight today, dumbass, so let's just-"

The next thing Falco knew, he was bending over forwards, clutching at the ache in his gut where the punch had landed, while the feline looked down at him.

"Not so great when you're not calling the shots, are ya?!"

"Go to.. to hell, Ta-"

He rolled over to land heavily on his side as Tachi aimed a vicious kick at his chest, nearly lifting him off the ground entirely. He was dimly aware of Leon making a little squeak of panic as he hit the floor with his shoulder, but the pain was taking up almost all his attention. As he tried to push himself back up, so he felt a boot on his back, pushing him back down again.

"Shut your mouth! Sick a' you running your mouth off, wandering in here like you own the place!"

There was blood on his tongue, dull and metallic, he spat it out and looked up.

"More than you ever will."

Tachi just smiled, a nasty curve of teeth across his face which had nothing to do with humour. He reached into the pocket of his coat, fumbling with something there before drawing out a huge serrated knife. Falco's sense of pain fell away, replaced with the cold hollow of fear.

"I guess I just need to get you gone, then."

What happened next seemed to go past in a blur: Tachi's arm drew back, knife gripped firmly, pointing downwards, as Falco 's eyes widened, certain he'd reached the end of the line. There was a momentary flash of green and the knife was gone, then suddenly back again, this time buried to the hilt in the feline's shoulder.

"What the-" His expression was confused for a second, but only a second.

The string of cursing that might have followed was cut off by another flash of green: the knife had migrated to the other shoulder, a spray of blood still arcing from the first wound. He opened his mouth and screamed, an un-nerving sound which was enough to see most of the gathered crowd disperse quickly.

One final flash of green shot past Falco's vision and he turned to look behind him. Leon was standing there, the knife clasped firmly in the end of his tail, eyes wide, staring into space.

"Leon?"

The chameleon's gaze flickered to him instantly, and Falco was suddenly struck by the oddest, most disturbing thought:

-No wonder he's always watching me... he's been learning.-

There was something in that look of his, some element of helplessness, of being lost and looking to someone for guidance, that seemed so at odds with his unexpected violence that it sent a shiver down his spine. Just for a moment, he seemed like two people in one.

Then Leon's eyes flicked to the end of his tail, with the knife and the blood, and he fainted clean away.


End file.
